


traffic

by cruxxite



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alcohol, Blood, Descriptions of wounds, F/M, Wounds, i dont even know how to tag this, kind of?? i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 19:30:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1060700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cruxxite/pseuds/cruxxite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She didn't need him (yes she did). She could've handled it on her own (no she couldn't've).</p>
            </blockquote>





	traffic

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be cotton candy but then i realized that isnt what the characters wanted that day so i just kind of went with how they guided me idk 
> 
> writing isnt writing if u gotta force ur characters to do stuff u just gotta flow w/ them or else its rly no fun at all

There's a broken bottle in your hand and blood on your knees. 

You realize that this is probably not the best scenario to be in. It sounds a lot worse than it is, though. You had only slipped, hit the bottle on the counter and heard the crack, felt your legs give way as you landed on the broken glass. At least it's a liquor bottle, you tell yourself. So it's sterile enough, right? At this point, falling back onto your ass and staring at your bloody knees with a quivering lip, you wonder if you should call Dirk.  

Yeah, you really should. 

But you won't, because you've bothered him enough when you're _like this._ Even in this state you know that. It's not a big deal, you tell yourself, wondering if that shard hit your kneecap. It's okay, though. You'll be okay, you tell yourself, grasping it and crying out as you pull it from your skin. Do you need stitches for that? Shit, with your luck, you're going to. You think over your options with a mind that can barely comprehend the internal syllables.  

==> Roxy: Call 911? 

Fuck no. 

==> Roxy: Call Dirk?  

Fuuuuuuck no.

==> Roxy: Call Jake?

FUUUUUUUUUUUCK NO.

==> Roxy: Call Jane? 

Fu - well. 

 _Well_. That's an idea, at least. It's better than your last idea (calling your mother is really the worst idea you had). Jane is sweet enough to come over, too, and sweet enough to know what to say about it, and she'll probably know how to bandage it, what with all her detective knowledge. You reach up to grab your phone from the counter. Her number is at the top of your Favorites list. You tap the '1' button on your keypad (instant dial is your best friend) and wait. 

Four rings. You think she's ignoring you, which wouldn't be surprising, as she's certainly done it before. Half of the last, then a breathless, "Roxy?" 

"Jane." 

Jane sighs. "How are you?" 

"Mehhhh. I'm bleedin' a lot, heh. Probs stainin' the tiles... whoops." You giggle.

Jane's quiet, then she says, "What do you mean, you're bleeding? Roxy, are you alright?" 

"Nah." 

"What happened?" You can hear her rummaging around, hear the jingling of keys. "I'm coming over, okay?" 

"'K-kay then," you tell her, watching a drop form a new crimson rivulet. "Oh! I was. Jus'. Slippin', then POW! I fell! An'. The bottle's broke, on the floor I guess. Glass is _sharp_ , Jane! R-real sharp. 'M like, ow. Hooooooly shit, Janey. Ow! I don' wanna move. M'knees hurt like a mothe’ _fucker!_ ”

During this, you've heard her engine rev to life, and could imagine the way she chews on her lip and makes it cherry red. "Jane," you add, "Jane, I think y'r cute."

"I know, Roxy. I'll be there soon, okay? Try to reach a towel to wipe your wounds." 

"Wounds," you echo. 

"Your ouchies." 

Oh. "Okay. W'll you keep talkin' t' me?" 

Jane hesitates. "I need to drive, Roxy, you know I hate using my phone while I'm driving." 

Oh. "Uh-huh," you mutter. "'ll miss you, Naney.”

"Janey," she corrects you. You smile, without realizing she cannot see it, and repeat what she said. You tell yourself that she smiled, too, when she hangs up. 

Not one to disappoint your best friend, you try to reach up to grab the towel that hangs from the handle of the dishwasher. You can't reach, so instead, you use a serving fork found in the nearest drawer to rake it onto the floor, then drag it into your reach. There, easy. You take the side that wasn't on the floor and, biting your lip, press it onto the injuries and fuck, fuck, FUCK that hurts. You watch the lavender towel fade into an ugly sort of plum. Gross. Very gross. Euuuugh. 

Finally, there's a knock at your front door, just as your phone rings. You call, "C'min!" before answering the call. 

"Roxy, there's dreadful traffic, it looks like it's going to be a while, so I messaged someone from your area, okay?" 

"Who?" You know there's not many who live around here, considering this is one of the most wealthy areas of the county. 

"Um, that one boy you tutored for a while? Do you remember him? John said he'd be best, and that he'll probably know how to patch you up," Jane sounds apologetic. "I'm sorry I couldn't get there right away!"

You usually do a lot of tutoring during the school year, especially in things like Tech Ed or Programming. You've tutored more than a few boys in it, too (which included Jane's cousin, for a little while, along with a friend of his with a funny K name), so Jane's answer isn't really the best. 

A voice calls out your name. It sounds pretentious, a touch of an accent nobody can ever identify, and actually a little worried. 

"'M in the kitchen," you say, "but there's shit in the bathroom, so like, go in there and grab some." 

"There's shit in the bathroom?" the voice says. "I couldn't've guessed." 

"Shut the fuck up and get me some aspirin," you snap. There's a groan, then light footsteps heading away, then closer to you. 

Of course it's this one. 

Of _course_.

He's in a violet sweatshirt and faded black jeans, different than anything you've ever seen him in. His hair is pushed back kind of sloppily, with the stupid purple streak just sort of swept up over his head, as if he only raked his fingers through it a few times to get it that way. He looks... disheveled. His face pales when he sees the blood around you, dripping down your calves and thighs and staining your white skirt.  

"Uhm." Eridan blinks at you, and you blink back. You're both surprised to see each other in the states you're in. 

"You ain't Jane," you say, as if you've just found out about this right now. Which, you kind of did. 

The phone, you then recall, is still held up to your ear, loose in your grasp. Jane's asking if you're still there, to which you reply you see what she meant and you need to go before hanging up and pushing the phone toward him. 

"Look up how to bandage this stuff," you tell him. 

"There's blood on it," he says, grimacing and pulling his own from his back pocket. "I've got my own, you know." 

Motherfucker's got the weirdest vees and double-yous you've ever heard. "Uh-huh," you mumble. "Just help me wash these off." 

"It's," he sounds a little flustered. "It's gonna get your skirt wet." 

"No shit," you say, giving him a look. 

"Shut it," he tells you, biting his lip a little. "You do know what water does to white fabric?" 

You roll your eyes. You're mostly sober now. Pain does that. "Yeah, alright, 'm wearing panties, okay? Cool it, A-Rod.” 

"I just don't wanna..." 

"I don't care," you sigh, "what you see. I'm still bleeding and it really hurts. Please just help me out with this. Please." 

You hate that you're begging, hate that you need help at all, but you're not really one to send him home. Who would take an order from a girl on her ass with blood dripping down her shins? 

Eridan approaches hesitantly, standing over you. You see him press his lips together to fight back a yawn. What was he doing when Jane texted him? He isn't even wearing those stupid striped pants, or that long coat with the fancy collar. Did he rush here? Did he shove his legs into those old jeans and pull that ratty sweatshirt over his head to come get you, without even bothering to rake some gel into his hair? 

Something in your chest swells. You try to ignore it. 

You take the towel and hold it out for him by the corner. "Here," you say, "throw this over the side of the counter. You see the paper towels, right?" 

"I know what to do," he half-snaps. "Just let me do this, okay? Jesus." 

It turns out he does. He doesn't really say much when he dampens half the towels that he folds thickly to lightly clean off the streaks of blood and the areas around the injuries. His gaze is as careful as his hands, keeping them trained on your knees and only above that when necessary. You hadn't taken him as this sort of a person, you muse while he picks tiny pieces of glass out with some tweezers. The kind that would come  help someone at a moment's notice, without even knowing what he has to do. It's sweet, almost opposite the desperate womanizer you had first taken him to be. 

The cuts aren't as bad as you thought they were, now that they're clean. He'd used as little water as he could so it wouldn't get on your skirt, which you found yourself appreciating. When Eridan is bandaging your knees, quietly telling you to try to stretch them out or lock them straight or bend them tight, you finally speak again. 

"Why did you agree to this?" you ask, watching his hands.  

He shrugs. "I owe you for helpin' me pass Tech. Nothin' more." 

"Your non-existent debt woulda been repaid just by throwing me the bandages," you tell him. "Teaching you that shit ain't hard. You gave more than what you owe." 

He shrugs again, using butterfly tape to press the ends and the edges in place so it doesn't move or slip. "Yeah, well, this is easy shit for me. So it is even." 

"You have blood all over your hands." 

"So what." 

"You yelled at me for getting a drop of ink on your pants on like, the first day I tutored you."

He pauses, swallowing. "That would have stained."

"You have blood on your jeans," you point out, stretching your legs to test the bandages. He's done them well; they're still tight and don't slip against your injuries. "Blood stains."  

Eridan glances to the side. "It's fine. I don't care for these, anyway."  

"What were you doing when Jane texted you?" 

He shrugs. What's with this kid and noncommittal gestures? "Nothin' important. Don't worry about it."  

"Did I interrupt somethin'?" you press. "Just tell me. 'S'not a bit deal."  

"Drop it, Lalonde." His voice is almost a growl. "I came to help you. Nothin' more."  

"I never said it was something more," you say, "but you did, and think there could be more to it, huh?"  

He shoots you a glare with eyes that you can now see are just touched with red. "Where you sleeping?" you ask, before he can say anything in defense.  

"'Course not." Eridan stands, steady on his feet. He doesn't offer you any help. "I did what John asked me to. I'm leavin'."  

You speak before you think, which is always a dreadful idea, but you do it anyway. "No."  

"What?"  

There's the thought. You realize now just how stupid you sound, how desperate, and you hesitate before continuing. You should just shake your head and tell him to go. It'd be best for both of you. He was sleeping, and you should let him get back to that. Besides. You were only in that tense, mutual-appreciation sort of friendship to make his coming over every other night less uncomfortable. But you thought, near the end, when he was better at it, that you could stray from the topic at hand onto another easily, as friends do. That's what you hoped, anyway. But now, fuck it, why not? "I don't want you to go," you tell him. Your voice is much softer than you wanted it to be. 

He had been moving, had been on his way to the door. But now he stops, turning to you. You're both silent for a few moments, gazing at each other, waiting. Then he speaks, one quick word. "Why?"  

Why.  

Yes, Roxy. Why? 

Why do you want him to stay? Is it just that you've missed him? That's likely, because now that you think about it, you really have. You've passed each other in the hall, sure, but you only just now understand how much you'd give only for a nod in your direction. You wonder if he ever thought the same.

He's waiting for your answer. You decide to be honest, with yourself and with him. "I don't know."  

You watch him hesitate, watch him turn that over in his mind. You want to know what he's thinking, but you're too afraid to ask. So you bite your lip and wait, and watch his expression that carefully doesn't change, and you pray to anything out there that he's not going to hate you after this.  

Then his hand is outstretched in front of you. It takes a moment for your brain to process it before you slip your hand into his and he lightly pulls you to your feet. You wobble, unsteady, and his arm shifts as if to wrap around your waist before it settles on your elbow.  

You can't help but feel a little disappointed.  

"My father doesn't know where I am," he tells you. He pauses, lips opening and closing as he tries to figure out what to say. "I should really go. He thinks I'm asleep." 

"You snuck out to come help me?" you find yourself saying. It's hard to think, still, while the haze of almost-drunk-almost-sober drags through your mind. You give up on it.  

"Well," he begins. His accent is shaky there, and you bite back a tiny giggle. "It isn't anything to bother yourself thinking about." 

"I didn't plan to."

"But I really should go."

"You're not moving," you point out, quite matter-of-fact.

"I said I should," he mutters. "I never said I _would_.”

You start to say something, but then your phone vibrates from its position on the tiles, its sound loud and grating. He lets go of you and crouches to pick it up, glancing at the screen before giving it to you. It's Jane. She's texted you that there was a bad accident, and that she took your silence as a good thing, and that she's going to just turn around and go home and hopes to see you on Monday. 

You text her back, tell her you're fine and hope to see her Monday, too. She then says that she hopes everything went well with Eridan, because you guys are really cute together, oh my god. You send her a winky face and turn off your phone, looking back up at him. 

"Just Jane. Makin' sure I'm alright and stuff," you inform him, and he nods. 

The silence, for a moment, is fairly awkward. You don't know what to do or say to change it. He seems to, though, because his hand is slowly, hesitantly sliding around your waist, and you immediately find yourself relaxing against him. You glance up, praying this is okay, to see the slightest smile adorning his lips. When he sees you looking, though, he licks them and smooths them back straight. 

You giggle. 

"So what are you going to do, then?" you finally ask. 

He shrugs. "I was thinkin' I may just, uh. Stay a while, maybe."

"Eridan, it's like, one in the morning."

"Yeah, and you're probably tired. You should get some sleep." 

You whine, falling against him. "But I don't wanna," you say, clutching his shirt. He raises his eyebrows, giving you a look until you cave. It takes a few minutes, but you still end up grumbling, "Fine. But _only_ if you carry me."

This time, it's his turn to whine. "Do you realize how cliché that is? It's very cliché."  

"But you'll do it anyway, won't you?"  

"Shut it." Of course, he does. He lifts you off your feet and holds you with an arm under your back and a careful one under your knees; you feel a little like a princess when he takes you upstairs. Sure, he's muttering under his breath about you being heavy or this being really lame, but what would he know? You call him heavy and lame, and he tries not to laugh. You, on the other hand, don't hold back, burying your face in his shoulder so you don't shake too much to the point where he drops you. He seems to appreciate this, you think. He takes you into your room and lays you down gently on your bed, and you drag him down with you.

Eridan gives you a look, and you make a face right back. He's done a lot for you tonight. A lot more than he needed to. Perhaps, if he's feeling generous, he could do just one more thing. 

You summon up the remainder of your liquid courage and take the fabric of his hoodie in your fists, then lean forward to kiss him.

He does not return it.


End file.
